Malos. Okay. Malos is in here with Lloyd. That's good, he thinks past the haze of his mind. Malos is good. He trusts him.
Doesn't change the fact that he can't properly control his movements. Every attempt ends up shaky and limp, the way his legs strain to hold up his body shown in the way he trembles. He can't tell if he's cold or if he's hot or what, given how he's shivering but sweating and everything is terrible. Pressure begins to build up in Lloyd's chest, suffocating and anxiety inducing. He can't move like this, can't fight, can't even run. He's useless.
The last time he felt this way, every one of his friends had seemingly sacrificed themselves for him, one by one, falling like dominoes in a chain. His swords lie somewhere in the dirt of this cavern, and he needs them. Needs to pick them up. Needs to be useful. Come on Lloyd, fucking walk.
Malos yelps and collapses. Lloyd subconsciously follows the sound, trying to work past the ether high and help him up, but the moment he takes a step forward, his vision goes momentarily black and he panics, stumbling again. The wings. The fucking wings he never wanted are the only things holding him up and he hates it, another reminder of how he's only been at all useful because of things that never came from his own strength or training. He can't even help his own grandfather.
And then the blade raises their weapon, and Lloyd watches in distant horror as they take aim at Malos, unaware of the tears that are spilling down his face, trying to will his stupid fucking body into doing something to stop this -
The blur behind Malos' vague shape disappears, and another appears behind it. Lloyd squints, best he can past the tears he can't control, and hiccups. It takes a moment of fighting his exhausted, high, and twisted mind, but he can place a name to the figure.
Kratos.
Lloyd's hallucinating. He has to be fucking hallucinating.
Lloyd Irving and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
Doesn't change the fact that he can't properly control his movements. Every attempt ends up shaky and limp, the way his legs strain to hold up his body shown in the way he trembles. He can't tell if he's cold or if he's hot or what, given how he's shivering but sweating and everything is terrible. Pressure begins to build up in Lloyd's chest, suffocating and anxiety inducing. He can't move like this, can't fight, can't even run. He's useless.
The last time he felt this way, every one of his friends had seemingly sacrificed themselves for him, one by one, falling like dominoes in a chain. His swords lie somewhere in the dirt of this cavern, and he needs them. Needs to pick them up. Needs to be useful. Come on Lloyd, fucking walk.
Malos yelps and collapses. Lloyd subconsciously follows the sound, trying to work past the ether high and help him up, but the moment he takes a step forward, his vision goes momentarily black and he panics, stumbling again. The wings. The fucking wings he never wanted are the only things holding him up and he hates it, another reminder of how he's only been at all useful because of things that never came from his own strength or training. He can't even help his own grandfather.
And then the blade raises their weapon, and Lloyd watches in distant horror as they take aim at Malos, unaware of the tears that are spilling down his face, trying to will his stupid fucking body into doing something to stop this -
The blur behind Malos' vague shape disappears, and another appears behind it. Lloyd squints, best he can past the tears he can't control, and hiccups. It takes a moment of fighting his exhausted, high, and twisted mind, but he can place a name to the figure.
Kratos.
Lloyd's hallucinating. He has to be fucking hallucinating.
Or maybe the universe just hates him that much.